John seems to hesitate, and Martin's terrified for a moment that he shouldn't have offered. John will refuse, say something snide, and lever himself up on his own. Doesn't need Martin patronizing him, doesn't need the - whatever it is. He's always refused help, and why should this be any - oh, he's taken it.
As much as he's always aware of its existence, Martin was in no way prepared to actually feel the scar on John's hand. It's long since healed, little more now than a faint sheen the light catches at odd angles, and a smoother texture than what he's anticipating. It strikes him how much it covers, John's entire palm, his fingers; so little fuss was made over it, to his then-frustration. And on top of all this, he's never touched John's hand before, at all, has he? Christ, was John brushing all the fog away the first time? That can't be right. Maybe there was once, before Jude Perry happened, shaking hands on an introduction? Maybe? That doesn't sound right either. John would have been too distant, and he too awkward, too intimidated by this tall, striking, unattainable man with that arch sneer he always seemed to wear in those days. So no, no contact, not until this precise moment of casual drunken forgetfulness.
He'd thought about it, of course, in the hospital. Reaching out and taking John's hand while filling him in on all he'd missed. The nurses said even said it might help, probably making a few assumptions along the way, but he'd never done it. Wanted to. Hadn't.
John's grip tightens surprisingly as he recovers his balance, and then he lets go, and Martin stuffs both hands quickly into his pockets as though there'll be some mark on them, some obvious sign. He really needs to get home. Lie down, face first, and not think about anything for a while.
Fortunately John is there to offer him something else to focus on, and he smiles and huffs a laugh. "That'd be a neat trick," he says, turning and wandering back out into the warm night air. He was already overheated, and this doesn't help a bit.
"I miss London summer," he grumbles. "Not so... milky." That really isn't the word he was looking for, he thinks, but it's what happened. "Well, I... I guess I'll be off, then." He looks at John for a moment, wanting to say something else, or take him up on his offer. Wanting far too much.
"Thank you," he says instead, a bit too serious. "I- I'll see you tomorrow, probably."
The certainty and normalcy of it is so comforting. Maybe it can just be comforting. Not awful or scary or... fraught. He turns away to amble home. Could do with an amble. Sober himself up a bit. Get his head right. Exhaust himself so he just passes out when he hits his bed. Wake up a wreck and see John, probably. Plausibly.
"Christ," he mutters, and pulls his arms around himself despite the late summer heat.
no subject
As much as he's always aware of its existence, Martin was in no way prepared to actually feel the scar on John's hand. It's long since healed, little more now than a faint sheen the light catches at odd angles, and a smoother texture than what he's anticipating. It strikes him how much it covers, John's entire palm, his fingers; so little fuss was made over it, to his then-frustration. And on top of all this, he's never touched John's hand before, at all, has he? Christ, was John brushing all the fog away the first time? That can't be right. Maybe there was once, before Jude Perry happened, shaking hands on an introduction? Maybe? That doesn't sound right either. John would have been too distant, and he too awkward, too intimidated by this tall, striking, unattainable man with that arch sneer he always seemed to wear in those days. So no, no contact, not until this precise moment of casual drunken forgetfulness.
He'd thought about it, of course, in the hospital. Reaching out and taking John's hand while filling him in on all he'd missed. The nurses said even said it might help, probably making a few assumptions along the way, but he'd never done it. Wanted to. Hadn't.
John's grip tightens surprisingly as he recovers his balance, and then he lets go, and Martin stuffs both hands quickly into his pockets as though there'll be some mark on them, some obvious sign. He really needs to get home. Lie down, face first, and not think about anything for a while.
Fortunately John is there to offer him something else to focus on, and he smiles and huffs a laugh. "That'd be a neat trick," he says, turning and wandering back out into the warm night air. He was already overheated, and this doesn't help a bit.
"I miss London summer," he grumbles. "Not so... milky." That really isn't the word he was looking for, he thinks, but it's what happened. "Well, I... I guess I'll be off, then." He looks at John for a moment, wanting to say something else, or take him up on his offer. Wanting far too much.
"Thank you," he says instead, a bit too serious. "I- I'll see you tomorrow, probably."
The certainty and normalcy of it is so comforting. Maybe it can just be comforting. Not awful or scary or... fraught. He turns away to amble home. Could do with an amble. Sober himself up a bit. Get his head right. Exhaust himself so he just passes out when he hits his bed. Wake up a wreck and see John, probably. Plausibly.
"Christ," he mutters, and pulls his arms around himself despite the late summer heat.